


A Short Crack Story About Richey/Justice/the Boosh

by vtn



Category: Justice (Band), Manic Street Preachers, Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-20
Updated: 2009-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard and Vince go fishing on the Thames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Short Crack Story About Richey/Justice/the Boosh

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a certain Ron, who wanted me to write a short crack story about Richey Edwards, Justice, and the Mighty Boosh.

Howard Moon is sitting by the side of the Thames, deep in concentration, fishing rod in hand, staring steely-eyed out over the still surface of the water and completely failing to be able to ignore the sounds of Vince Noir acting out _Pride and Prejudice_ using fruits and vegetables from their picnic basket.

“I say,” Vince says, holding up a pear with a face drawn on. “Miss Bennet, you are looking just lovely today.” He picks up a head of cabbage—why do they even have a head of cabbage, Howard wonders?--and changes to a female voice. “By George, I could just swoon.”

“Vince.” Vince ignores him. “Vince!”

“Yeah?” He looks up from where he is drawing a cross face on a bell pepper.

“Have you ever even _read_ _Pride and Prejudice_?”

“Nah. Have you?”

“Er.” No, but would he admit to that? Not likely. “Er, I'll have you know Jane Austen is one of the literary greats of British history. Not read _Pride and Prejudice_? How could I not! She had so many things to say about, society, and the er, social, erm, state of England, er, at the time, so I--”

“All right!” Vince looks a little hurt. “I was just asking.”

“Fine. Now could you give me a little peace and quiet? I'm trying to indulge in one of Britain's greatest pastimes.”

“Fishing is boring,” says Vince, but Howard has given up on arguing with him and concentrates on the water. “Mister _Daaaaar_ cy,” he hears in the background.

Focus, Howard. He tells himself. The calm of the river. Be one with nature, Howard. Be one with—what the...?

There is a sharp tug on his line and Howard starts reeling it in immediately. There is a blinding flash of light and a shower of glitter. Oh, SHIT, Howard thinks for a brief moment. The last thing he needs is another visit from Old Gregg or someone like him. As he tries to regain his vision, the memories of his past threaten to burst free and he clenches his teeth. There are some things no one should ever have to think about.

But the figure reclining on the bank does not look a thing like Old Gregg. Kohl-lined eyes, delicate fingers that twirl a daisy absentmindedly, long leopard-print coat...Howard feels tap on his shoulder. Vince is hiding behind him, trembling.

“Howard,” he whispers, reverently. “D'you know who that _is_?”

“No I don't, Vince,” he says, a little miffed. He would've preferred fish.

“It's Richey Edwards, Vince!”

“Who's that?” Vince hits him. “Hey!”

“Richey Edwards! From the Manic Street Preachers!”

“What's that, some kind of cult?” Vince gives a deep, despairing sigh.

“No, it's a band!”

“Do they play anything good? Like, jazz?”

“No, they don't play jazz, Howard. It's glam rock!”

“Not your bloody glam rock again.”

“I'm telling you, Howard! He's like, one of my idols, Howard! He's Welsh and all!”

At that point, Richey Edwards picks himself up off the riverbank and cocks his head to look at Howard and Vince. He does look a bit familiar. And then Howard remembers. He's that musician from television. Threw himself off a bridge or something ages ago.

“Er, hello,” says Richey Edwards, extending a hand to Howard. “I'm Richey...”

“Howard Moon.” He shakes Richey's hand. “I've heard about you. My friend Vince tells me you're one of his idols.”

“Britain has too many idols,” says Richey, sweeping his fringe back from his pretty eyes. “All the Jane Austens of the world, they mean nothing. They're the refuse of a dead generation.”

“Urgh, can't I find someone here who likes Jane Austen?” Howard grumbles. “Anyway, let me introduce you.” Vince, still trembling, steps out from behind Howard's back and extends his arm. He squeals when Richey touches him.

“Oh,” says Richey, grinning. “I _like_ you. Sorry, Howard, can I borrow your wife then?”

“He's not my wife. And—no!”

“Oh, please Howard,” Vince begs.

“Sit and fish with me,” says Howard. “And be _quiet_. Then I'll consider it.”

“Ooh, great, I love fishing,” says Richey. He produces a fishing rod out of nowhere and sits down by the bank. “It's been a while since I've been fishing in London.”

“You look exactly the same as you did fifteen years ago,” says Howard.

“Found an underwater bomb shelter,” Richey explains. “Loads of food. And lots of fish. Good for your skin.”

“Aha,” says Howard. They fish for about two hours and are moderately successful. Richey catches some fish. Howard almost catches one, but feels bad for it and lets it go. Vince catches a tire. He becomes extremely pleased with his tire and gets Howard to roll him down a hill in it a few times.

They're about to head home when Richey's hook catches on something. It takes all three of them to pull it out, and it turns out to be a pair of Frenchmen. They smell, a bit.

“Oh!” says Vince. “You're the Parisian electro duo Justice! I love 'Waters of Nazareth'.” He then attempts to sing a bit of it.

“Yes,” says the tall one with the afro. He then looks mysteriously out over the river Thames.

“We are sorry,” says the short Asian one. “We were trying to swim the English Channel.”

“This is the Thames,” says Howard.

“He read the map incorrectly,” says the short Asian one, who happens to be Xavier so I will refer to him as such.

“No,” says the tall afro'ed one, who is in fact Gaspard.

“Well, that's all right,” says Richey, standing up. “I've had enough of fucking fishing. Electro is shit, it's music made of nothing for a generation that needs something.”

“Will you shut up,” says Howard.

“Can I suck your cock?” says Richey.

“Yes, let us have an orgy,” says Xavier. Gaspard looks at him suspiciously and then shrugs. Vince seems pretty agreeable, so they all go down to Richey's underwater bomb shelter and don't emerge for days.


End file.
